[JJ06] Quicksand (12 page)

CHAPTER 23

“Let’s go over what we know,” I said.

Lane rested his elbows on the table, put his head in his hands, and yawned.

“I’m boring you with all this talk about jumping into action?”

“You may have noticed I didn’t get to sleep last night, and the night before I only caught a few hours. I’ve been running on adrenaline.”

“I wish you had time to sleep, but we don’t have that luxury.”

Lane raised a sleepy eyebrow at me. “What am I missing?”

“
We know time is of the essence—”

“We do?” He snapped up.

“Yes,” I said, “we do. North made a mistake in his plan to get me here. If he wanted to be sure I’d come, he would have waited until I was on spring break. Instead, he had to risk that I’d come right away. It was a
risk
, and now I’ve seen firsthand that he doesn’t like risk.”

“That’s good. That’s very good. But it’s still not much.”

“I know. But since North is acting differently from his usual MO, we need to figure out why. Tell me what you know about North. Everything.”

“I told you the basics already, when I was trying to convince you to take the threat seriously.”

“I know not to underestimate him. But what about personal details. How did you meet him?”

“In a way, through John.”

“Your mentor.”

“It’s probably not the most accurate description of our relationship, since he always worked alone, but since he took me under his wing, that’s the easiest way to describe it. John was one of the few people I knew who told me to stay away from North. I was skeptical of the advice, because I’d heard that North was a man of his word. He was also a man of vision, something I found compelling at that time in my life. It was when I wanted to hurt people I thought deserved it. North took advantage of my motivation. He used it. That’s what he does. He’s smart, so he can manipulate people to get what he wants. I did one job with him, because it was stealing from a rich baron who’d acquired his wealth through questionable means, and also happened to beat his wife.”

“You robbed a wife-beating baron of some art. That doesn’t sound so bad.” I cringed as I spoke the words.

“John was right. North only told me what I wanted to hear. He never
lied
—he left out the full truth through omission. I decided to work alone from then on.”

It was odd hearing more about things Lane had done in his life before he went straight and converted from an art thief to an art historian.

“North is universally known in the business,” Lane continued, “and also in the legitimate art world, as Henry North.”

As Lane spoke, I used the laptop to look
up Henry North. “It says he’s a wealthy art dealer. Exactly like he told me. How boring.”

“And a great cover.”

“Is that his real name?”

“I highly doubt it. But he covered his tracks well. It looks like a real identity.”

“Dante and Marius are real names, too? Everyone on this museum job?”

“As real as you can consider the names they’ve gone by for years. Which reminds me...” He took the laptop from me. As he typed, a smile lit up his face. “Perfect.”

“What’s perfect?”

He turned the screen toward me. It was a news service article in an English-language newspaper. “Performance Art in Poor Taste at the Louvre,” the headline read, next to a photo of thousands of people crowded into the lobby of the Louvre, underneath the great pyramid. “Paris, France,” I read out loud. “At eleven o’clock this morning, a performance artist known as Chaos singlehandedly wreaked havoc at the world’s most famous museum, the Louvre. Chaos, whose real identity is unknown, dressed as a museum docent and brazenly removed a painting in front of hundreds of people, before running through the museum and leaving the unharmed painting inside a box with a political message—” I broke off and skimmed the rest of the story. “It goes on to say guards circled him and foiled his plans to leave the museum with the painting. How can they say that? That’s not what really happened.”

Lane shrugged. “It’s sort of true. You’d prefer they report the truth?”

“Of course not.” I handed the computer back to Lane. “It’s still unsettling.”

“It’s similar to what happened when the Corot painting was stolen in 1998. The press reported that the museum had searched all the guests before letting people out, but they hadn’t.”

“How could they—”

“Let’s get back on point,” Lane said. “North isn’t as far ahead of us as he thinks he is. Like only knowing about my hideout that’s an open secret. Not this place.”

“Is that where you got this camera and added disguise from?” I asked. “I thought he was having you watched the whole time up until the heist.”

“When Marius and I needed a food break, I suggested grabbing a bite at a restaurant around the corner from that place. When I excused myself to go to the bathroom, he didn’t find it necessary to follow. Which is what I expected. He’s very proper in many ways. I was back within three minutes, with the bag tucked under the back of my shirt.”

“What if he had followed you to the bathroom?”

“I didn’t leave it up to chance. Not
too much
chance. I weighed the risk, like I always do. Marius was eating his favorite dish, which the waiter brought out moments before, so it was highly unlikely he’d follow me. But if I’d known what North was capable of, I wouldn’t have taken the risk.” Lane ran his hands through his hair, then picked up a pen and twirled it between his fingers. “There’s something we’re missing.”

“There’s
a lot
we’re missing. Such as the fact that the parchment doesn’t say where the cloister is, or what’s hidden in the crypt. But right now, you need sleep. You look like you’re about to fall over. Take a nap. I’ll research while you get some rest.”

“You might be right that I need some sleep to think straight. Remember, no contacting anyone about the illuminated manuscript page. Communications with people you know, like Tamarind, might be monitored. And communications with experts, even anonymously, might alert North that someone is looking into it when they shouldn’t be.” His eyelids drooped.

“Come on,” I said, leading a bleary-eyed Lane to the couch. “Where do you keep the blankets around here?”

“Closet,” he murmured, already lying down.

I found a narrow closet next to the front door, disguised by a hanging mirror. I brought back a plaid wool blanket, but I needn’t have bothered. He was already asleep. At least I thought so. But as I placed the blanket over him, his lips moved.

“Did you say something?” I whispered.

“The desk,” he said, opening his eyes. “Don’t forget about the desk. It may tell us something.” He told me the name of the desk at the Louvre, so I could look it up. “Any more questions for now?”

“Since you’re awake,” I said, “There’s a question I’ve been dying to ask. How did you choose the painting for the diversion?”

“You mean because it risked getting damaged?” He grinned. “I’ve always hated that painting.”

CHAPTER 24

While Lane slept, I got to work. I made myself another cup of tea, then sat down at the table with the laptop. Before I tackled research, there was something more important I had to do.

I needed to get back in touch with Sanjay sometime soon, lest he call the National Guard—or whatever the French equivalent was. The last time I was abroad and didn’t call him for more than a day, he hopped on a flight to India. To be fair, in that case he believed he had evidence that a treasure I was tracking down was also being sought by a killer. But Sanjay had always been one to overreact. I hoped that because he was currently in the midst of preparing for a magic tour, he wouldn’t have time to consider doing anything drastic, but I wanted to be sure.

With Lane’s word of warning, I knew my email couldn’t contain any information about what was going on. I logged onto my email on the laptop and sent him a brief message telling him that France wasn’t a bust after all, as I’d written to him shortly after arriving, and that I was going to enjoy a few days relaxing before flying home.

I was about to log off and get to work when I saw an email from Tamarind.

J,

Why aren’t you posting photos of Paris?

Things are boring here. Thanks for asking. What’s with the radio silence?

Most importantly, why did you let Naveen take over your classes while you’re gone??? He changed your syllabus—the nerve of that man!!!!!!!

Scratch that. It’s true about Naveen, but that’s not the most important thing. How’s Paris??? Send photos! You should do this thing where you pose in front of the Eiffel Tower making it look like your finger is on top of it.

T

I shouldn’t have opened the email. I couldn’t worry about Naveen or my students. I sent her a quick reply saying I had a spotty internet connection but that all was well.

I forced myself to push all thoughts of Naveen Krishnan from my mind. Whatever was going on at home could wait. I glanced at Lane, sleeping like the dead on the couch.

I closed the laptop and found a paper notebook and pen in the junk drawer where Lane had salvaged his cigarettes. Making myself a list, I came up with four main avenues of research to pursue:

First, the clue itself.
Cementarium claustri ad cryptam.
Stonemasons, cloisters, and a crypt. Without more to go on, the words didn’t tell us anything. I had to set aside that piece of the puzzle for now.

Second, the Indian elephant and tiger motif in both a French illuminated manuscript and in a letter written by a clerk from the East India Company. How were the two connected? We wouldn’t be able to get the parchment painting dated, so that was a dead end. And Indian rulers loved pageantry, so there were far too many riches involving tigers and elephants to narrow it down that way.

Third, the East India Company’s connections to the religious community in France. Before seeing this parchment, I hadn’t known there was such a connection. The letters North had might help connect the dots, but I had no way to see them. I’ve never fooled myself into believing I have anything close to a photographic memory, but when I focus on something, I give it my all. I remembered the date in the letter from the Englishman: 1793. But North had been careful not to show me anything too revealing.

Lastly, the desk at the Louvre where the parchment had been hidden. This was my best lead, because the parchment was deliberately placed inside the desk’s secret hiding place.

I knew close to nothing about the history of furniture, but from Lane I knew it was a high wooden desk with an angled top that was once used by monks in a scriptorium. The Louvre maintained a comprehensive website of its art, and I quickly found the desk in question. The information didn’t specify the provenance, but it was a desk once used by Benedictine monks circa 1100, before the Louvre acquired it during the French Revolution.

Switching browser tabs to look up where monks might have had such a desk, I saw that I’d forgotten to log out of my email. A new message was waiting for me. Sanjay had written back already. It was only around 6 o’clock in the morning in San Francisco. Did he ever sleep?

This illusion is killing me. Up all night again. I need a break. Why don’t you send me a mentalist puzzle for a break?

I froze. If North was still monitoring my email, this was bad. Why had I thought it was a good idea for me to write to Sanjay in code from Paris? Of course, I knew the reason. At the time, I didn’t realize the lengths North was willing to go to.

I tried to breathe. Was this what hyperventilating felt like?

I rea
d the email again. Sanjay didn’t actually say the word “code.” Nor did he say anything about our previous coded communication in which he’d directed me to Sébastien Renaud. I was overreacting.

But my mini freak-out gave me an idea. If I was right that the message on the piece of parchment was there to provide a clue, then there was no point in it being so obscure. It had to tell us something specific. Otherwise it wouldn’t have been worth hiding. I pulled up the image of the parchment of faded calligraphy and zoomed in.

I looked first at the painting. I didn’t know much about the artists who painted illuminated manuscripts, but to me it didn’t look like the animals and the man wrapped in the elephant’s trunk were the work of a skilled artist. The animals were recognizable, but that’s about all that could be said for them. As for the poor fellow being squeezed by the elephant’s trunk, his open mouth indicated agony, but there weren’t any identifiable details to suggest he was a specific historical figure.

Scrolling down to the text, I was struck by the differences between the inks Lane had pointed out. Where the animals remained vibrant, the Latin lettering had almost completely faded into the paper. I adjusted the contrast to get a better look.

“There’s another word,” I whispered to myself.

At the beginning of the string of words was additional lettering we’d missed because it was so faded it was nearly invisible.

Sequere.
Follow.

These were
directions
from the cloisters. “
Follow
stonemasons of cloisters to crypt.”

I’d solved it! Oh. Damn. Once I thought about my breakthrough for more than two seconds, it was clear I hadn’t solved a thing. Which stonemasons? Where was this cloister and crypt? How did a treasure end up there? Was it truly an Indian treasure as the painting suggested? I’d been wildly speculating when I told Lane I was sure the piece of parchment led to a bigger treasure. My head spun with everything we didn’t know.

I took a swig of tea, which had gone cold. I’d forgotten about it in the last hour spent delving into research. I stood up from the table and stretched. I was itching to go for a run to clear my head, but it didn’t seem wise to leave the apartment. Instead, I turned to the bookshelves in search of a break. A few cheesy adventure novels by H. Rider Haggard, like
King Solomon’s Mines
, were nestled in the corner of one shelf. I devoured those books as a guilty pleasure, but I’d never mentioned it to Lane. Several Jorge Luis Borges books lined one shelf. He hadn’t told me he read Borges, too. I picked up a dog-eared book.

“After you mentioned Borges on the train to Aberdeen last year,” Lane’s voice said from behind me, “I thought I should give him a try.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You cried out a minute ago.”

“I did?”

“I thought you might have made a breakthrough.” He tossed the blanket aside and got up. “As exhausted as I am, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Probably for the best anyway, since I’ve got these contact lenses on.”

“I thought for a second that I’d figured something out, but it doesn’t tell us anything. I’m afraid I may be leading us on a wild goose chase.”

“Metaphors and philosophy,” Lane said, looking at the book in my hand. “It’s interesting you enjoy these books. I thought you liked things to be more straightforward. Finding the truth in history and teaching it to college students, not getting caught up in messy, unanswerable questions.” 

How did he know me so well in such a short space of time? “You’re right, but Borges’ motif of the labyrinth is about as straightforward as you can get. It’s winding, but unlike a maze that leads off in too many different directions and includes dead ends, a labyrinth leads you exactly where you need to go.”

“Which one do you think we’re trapped in right now, Jones?”

“I wish I knew.”